


A Love Like War

by boopboop



Category: Captain America (Comics), Kings (TV 2009), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Canon-Typical Violence, D/s relationship, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Imprisonment, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7468101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boopboop/pseuds/boopboop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four days ago, Steve was at the bottom of the ocean, slowly freezing to death and almost glad of it.<br/>Four days and seventy-odd years later, he’s climbing a palace tower in the dead of night to rescue the Crown Prince of a country that hadn’t existed when he’d shipped off to war.<br/>Steve doesn't have all that much experience with princes, but he's pretty sure none of them are supposed to act like Jack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brobi_Wan_Kenobi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brobi_Wan_Kenobi/gifts).



> Otherwise known as the one where Steve is massively out of his depth, Jack deserves a hug (or thirty) and they both deal with their problems by falling into bed with each other while trying to start/avert/end the odd war.  
> You can blame this whole thing on stevetopsbuckysbottom, who commissioned a complete story off the back of a drabble I wrote forever and a day ago. It's taken me a whole lot longer than anticipated to actually get to the posting stage, but the good news is that there's 60k (or so) already written (ok so a lot of it is porn...) meaning there will not be decades between updates!
> 
> I'll warn (is warn the right word) you now - this is probably the most explicit story I have EVER written. Whoops?
> 
> Porn aside though, there are lots of politics at play in this fic and the dynamics of the world are an AU mash up of Our World ala Marvel and the world we see in Kings. I will be explaining things as we go, because Steve doesn't have a clue what's going on either.
> 
> As for Bucky... yeah. Poor Bucky. 
> 
> I am super, grossly sick, but I have been owing the first chapter of this story FOREVER. So, please excuse the germs and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Extra thanks to Brenda for her magic editing powers!)

Four days ago, Steve was at the bottom of the ocean, slowly freezing to death and almost glad of it.

Four days and seventy-odd years later, he’s climbing a palace tower in the dead of night to rescue the Crown Prince of a country that hadn’t existed when he’d shipped off to war.

That takes some getting used to. Before and After. He remembers exactly two things that took him into After; losing Bucky and not wanting to survive it. There’s also water and fire and ice. A cacophony of elements that lead quite inescapably to a man with an eyepatch leaning over him as he wakes.

_Hey Cap, guess what? You’re not dead._

_Hey Cap, guess what? You’re gonna wish you were._

Steve’s life has become more of a joke than he’d ever dreamed possible. Seventy years into the future. A lot can - has - happened in that amount of time.

They won the war. They lost pretty much everything else. Apparently, a lot of that is because of Steve.

A lot of things are because of him, if he’s to believe Director Fury, and now he’s no longer a member of the US Army. The US Army doesn’t exist any longer. The country it belonged to doesn’t exist any longer.

He’s supposed to be Captain America, but America is dead. Just like he is supposed to be.

Which leaves him - alive and bitterly resenting the fact - here, now a member of S.H.I.E.L.D, formerly the SSR. The closest thing to something he knows. Peggy’s legacy. Peggy, who is as dead as everyone else.

The uniform they have given him is only a few steps up from the tights he wore in the USO. He doesn’t have his shield and he misses the weight of it at his back, constant and reassuring.

He misses a lot of things at his back.

And now he’s clinging to the side of a wall.

Before he can stop himself he is looking down to the grounds below. His eyes are already adjusted to the darkness but for a split second there are no rows of roses and delicate gazebos; everything he sees is white.

“ _You hanging in there Cap_?” Natasha Romanov’s voice in his ear has become his only link to a world outside of the strange new country he’s infiltrated and he finds himself grateful for the moments she checks in with him, despite his discomfort with the whole situation. Unlike most of the operatives working with S.H.I.E.L.D, she’s not treating him like he’s a bomb that will go off any second. Her voice jerks him out of the white vortex his mind is tumbling down and he looks up, back to the task at hand.

“Kind of wondering if I should call up for Rapunzel to let down her hair,” Steve responds, clinging the the wall with the tips of his fingers and the edge of his boots. He’s over halfway there and he needs to keep his head in check. The fall might not kill him, but it’s something he probably shouldn’t test.

“ _I’ve met Jack Benjamin,_ ” Romanov laughs, “ _and he’s not exactly a damsel in distress_.”

“He’s a prince who’s been locked in a tower by his tyrannical father,” Steve points out, not adding the fact that for some reason, rescuing Jack Benjamin is so important to S.H.I.E.L.D that it is the first mission they have sent Steve on since The Great Thaw - a mission that apparently cannot wait for him to be completely debriefed on everything he has missed. They have given him next to no time to get his head around what has happened to him. Instead it is back into the fray, back into battle and fighting someone else’s war. He can’t think of a single reason not to go along with it that doesn’t involve him having to sit down and think about all the ways his life - and the world - has changed.

“Technically it’s a turret,” a voice from above calls down, carried on the wind. Steve looks up sharply, only the extraordinary strength in his fingers keeping him attached to the wall.

A young man with dark, unruly hair is partly leaning out of window thirty feet above his head. “Do you think you can move any faster? It’s getting drafty in here.”

“ _Cap_?” Romanov asks as the silence stretches and Steve just hangs there, staring stupidly up at the face eclipsed by the night sky and a hundred thousand stars. “ _You okay?_ ”

“Really not a damsel in distress,” Steve murmurs, a slow grin stretching across his face for the first time since the ice. “Possibly a dragon.”

“If I were capable of breathing fire I imagine I’d be a lot warmer,” the voice from above says wryly.

“I get the point,” Steve says, pushing himself to climb faster now, despite the urge to call up and tell his new commentator to just be fucking patient. Princes probably aren’t very patient.

By the time he reaches the ledge of the window the head leaning out of it has vanished. It leaves Steve with an opening to reach up and climb through. He does so, and hops down inside the strangest prison cell he’s ever seen. There are the trappings of a lot of fine things - rich wallpaper, plush carpets, and spaces where only emptiness remains. There are two couches and a solid mahogany coffee table. There’s also an enormous four poster bed - one that lacks the drapes that clearly once hung from each corner. There’s also no mattress or any kind of bedding.

“My father got it into his head that I was suicidal,” a voice drawls from the corner. “So naturally that means no more eiderdown.”

That’s the first proper glimpse Steve gets of Crown Prince Jack Benjamin and it’s…it’s not what he’s been expecting. He’s seen pictures. He knows what Jack is supposed to look like. Pale skin, perfectly neat dark hair, cheekbones to cut glass and those cold, cold blue eyes. Clearly identifiable traits, and while his hair is longer and a little more wild, Jack still looks like Jack, but-

But. He looks smaller. Sharper. Colder somehow, if it is even possible. He looks at Steve with eyes that cut right through him and the red curve of his lips pull into a sardonic smile. “Can’t have the Royal Sperm Bank jumping out of the window.” He lifts one bare ankle and the shackle fastened around it rattles loudly around the unnaturally hollow room. The chain is bolted to the end of the bed. It’s long enough for Jack to move around the room, to reach the window and glimpse the sky, but just shy of being long enough to escape through it. There is a cruelty in that false sense of freedom that fits with the things he has heard about the Prince’s father. There isn’t a single person within S.H.I.E.L.D who thinks King Silas isn’t a monster. That he is capable of doing this to his own son merely underscores the facts.  “I’d offer you a drink but as you can see,” he waves his arm lazily in the direction of the side table against the wall, “I’m not quite up to entertaining guests.” There’s a half drunk bottle of water, an apple, and an empty soup bowl. “The apples are grown in the garden though, if you’re hungry.”

There’s a comment there about the backwardness of captive princes offering their would-be-saviors apples. Steve thinks about keeping it curt and professional, but he thinks better of it when Jack looks at him with eyes that barely pass as human. They are too bright, too manic, too angry. “Is it poisoned?” he asks, prompting a bark of rough laughter, surprised and unused.

“Not that I’m aware of. Sometimes they put sedatives in the water, though.” Jack shrugs. His shoulder looks thin through the line of his loose black shirt. There are bruises on his knuckles and around his wrists. He’s in better condition than the prisoners of war Steve remembers, but the signs of mistreatment are there once he starts looking for them.

He waits for the punchline about the sedatives then realises there isn’t one.

“I’m here to rescue you,” he says, suddenly feeling awkward in his skin like he hasn’t in years as he sees the ridiculousness of the statement creep up on the corners of Jack’s mouth.

“Are you now?” Jack asks with a lazy smile. The edges of his silk lounge pants are just long enough to hide the chain around his ankle when he leans back against the bed frame. “You’ve braved the army outside, scaled the tower, found the prince… what does our dashing hero have planned next?”

“I’d imagine some kind of move where we both escape without getting shot,” Steve suggests, matching Jack’s tone. He’s come into this expecting the unexpected. Reports have Jack being locked up in this room for going on three years now. Fear and mistrust are emotions he’s prepared for - emotions he is used to - but Jack is shocking in his apparent calmness.

“ _Good call_ ,” Romanov says in his ear. “ _One that will be a lot easier if you get a move on._ ”

“I’m not going to get shot,” Jack says dismissively. “Well, not fatally. You on the other hand-“

“Would you rather stay here?” Steve interrupts, waving his arm around the room, indicating the practically bare but still somehow luxurious cell Jack has been kept in.

Jack shrugs his shoulders. “Well… I can’t imagine where you’d be packing heat under all that spandex. And unless you have the keys for this-“ he jangles the chain pointedly, “we won’t be going very far.”

“That’s assuming I need you in all in one piece,” Steve shrugs, testing the ground, testing the way Jack responds to threats. All it gets him is an ever-so-slight narrowing of the eyes. Not quite implacable, but certainly hard to shake. “Also,” he has to add, “the spandex was not my idea.”

Jack isn’t even trying not to smirk. “You look ridiculous.”

“I’m aware of that,” Steve huffs. “Do you want to get out of here or not?”

“I’m be embarrassed to be seen with you,” Jack says, and this is the playboy prince speaking now, cocksure and smug, even when imprisoned like this. It fits him like a cheap suit, but it actually puts Steve more at ease. It gives him a baseline to work from. Jack doesn’t trust him; Jack is trying to control the situation as much as he can by keeping Steve on his toes.  “Suppose we’re seen? What would people say?”

“Not really what I’m worrying about,” Steve says, his mind made up. He’s keeping half an ear out for sounds outside the room. His hearing is sensitive enough to know that aside from the guard stationed at the end of the corridor leading to the locked room, there is no-one else close by.

Steve crosses the room, goes down on one knee in front of Jack, waits for one of those expressive eyebrows to arch in sardonic amusement, then tears the shackle from his ankle as easily as if it were made from paper.

That wipes the smug look off Jack’s face.

Steve rises. He’s got nearly three inches on Jack. Three inches and probably eighty pounds. Jack doesn’t look intimidated. He’s not smirking anymore, but he’s not afraid either. It’s more calculated than that. Jack might be imprisoned but he’s no-one’s prey. “So those muscles aren’t just painted on for decoration, interesting.”

“You going to let me get you out of here now?” Steve asks. He’s becoming exasperated. He can’t afford to let himself lose focus. He needs to stay objective.

Jack doesn’t immediately agree, which makes him the least cooperative person Steve has ever rescued. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to leave before someone discovers I’m here.” He thinks that much should be obvious.

“No,” Jack says not missing a beat, “I mean why are you here at all?”

“To rescue you?”

That smirk is back. “To rescue me.”

“Your fairy godmother sent me,” Steve says, marching to the closet door. When he opens it, it is empty. Right. This is a problem Steve hadn’t foreseen. Jack has no shoes. No shoes, and soft, silky loungewear aren’t exactly practical items of clothing for an escape attempt. Still….

Jack laughs at him, either from the bad joke or the naivety he thinks Steve is showing. “You’re rather hung up on this whole fairytale royalty thing, aren’t you?”

“Don’t meet many princes in my line of work.” Steve shrugs off his antagonism. He heads back to the window and sticks his head out, gazing into the murky depths below. A glance at his watch tells him he’s got three minutes, max, before the guard rota changes for the early hours of the night.

“Your line of work being what, exactly?” Jack asks him. Even though he is now free, he has made no attempt to move either towards or away from Steve. He’s not looking at the door at all, and it’s hard to say if that is intentional or not.

Steve doesn’t answer. They are running out of time. Conscious of Jack’s bare feet and knowing it’s one hell of a climb down the side of the tower, he crosses the room, gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile, then hauls the prince up over his shoulder.

It’s slightly more unceremonious than he’s hoped for, but needs must. He can get Jack down the side of the tower faster this way, and he won’t be hurt in the process.

Steve, on the other hand, might well be. At least that is the message he gets when Jack, in the process of being picked up, slams his knee directly into Steve’s groin.

There’s a cup in the suit. That’s the only thing that saves him from serious injury. He still yells, drops Jack, doubles over and wonders exactly why he didn’t see that coming.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jack demands, furious enough that an outsider might think that he’s the one who has just been kneed in the balls.

“Trying,” Steve gasps, bracing himself against his knee for the few seconds it takes him to catch his breath, “to rescue you.”

“You can’t just climb into a man’s bedroom in the middle of the night and throw him over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes! That’s not a rescue, that’s a kidnapping!”

Steve scowls in annoyance, the hurt already fading.. “Do you want to climb down yourself?”

“I want to enjoy my insomnia in peace,” Jack snaps.

“ _Clock’s ticking, Rogers_ ,” Romanov speaks into Steve’s ear. Steve ignores her.

“So you want to stay locked up here?” he demands. This is new. He’s never rescued someone who doesn’t want to be rescued. Certainly not someone who until a few moments ago was chained up.

“You’ve not really given me much incentive,” Jack says, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that manages to be both obnoxious and defensive. “Put yourself in my position for a minute; would you trust a man in skin tight blue spandex?”

“If he was trying to help me, yes.”

“And are you?”

Steve is surprised he doesn’t hurt himself rolling his eyes as hard as he does. “Why else would I risk a knee to the nuts? I don’t think you’re exactly overrun with people lining up to be here.”

Jack’s got that look on his face again; cold smiles hiding true intentions. “Then why are you? And don’t say to rescue me because we’ve established that part. Why do I matter to you?”

That’s it. The tiny truth at the center of Jack’s prickly antagonism. Distrust. Paranoia. Steve’s read Jack’s military jacket; he should have played this better.  He’s off his game. For a moment the world turns white again... and then he’s staring Jack down, his shoulders set, squared off as if facing an enemy. It takes him a moment to realise what he’s doing.

When he does, he still has to physically force himself himself deflate. “You don’t deserve to be kept locked up here like this,” he says, his voice soft now, earnest and hopeful.

When Jack answers, his voice is almost as quiet. “You don’t know what I deserve.”

“Not this,” Steve tells him, thinking of chains and isolation and that white, swirling vortex once again. “No one deserves this.”

“Who the hell are you?” He’s not thawed that ice, not cracked those towering walls. He might even have made them thicker. He can see Jack physically and mentally shoring up his defences.

Honesty and sincerity are apparently not the way to win Jack Benjamin’s trust.

Thoughts of introducing himself as Steve Rogers go out the window. Jack isn’t going to respond to the hand of friendship; he’s too jaded, too wounded, even Steve can see that. He is, however, a soldier, and if Steve is being totally honest with himself, he feels more comfortable being Captain America right now anyway.

“I work for S.H.I.E.L.D,” he says, sticking to the company line. “They want you out of here for some reason they consider too important to share, and sent me to do the job. Now with the greatest respect, you can either help me help you, or I can reattach those chains and use them to lower you down the side of the building. Either way, you have thirty seconds to decide.”

Jack stares at him, quiet and slightly stunned. That’s the way to get things done then. Direct and to the point. Peggy will lov-

He swallows. Stares Jack Benjamin down.

The prince finally shakes his head. “Your plan is to climb down the side of the building?”

“I climbed up it alright.”

“And if you drop me?” Jack asks, arching one dark eyebrow in a way that expresses a whole encyclopaedia of disgust.

“I’m not going to drop you!” Steve is almost offended by the idea. “Does that mean I don’t have to knock you unconscious and carry you around like, what did you call yourself, a sack of potatoes?”

If looks could kill, Steve would be in pieces on the floor.

“If I leave the palace, I do so on my own two feet,” Jack says, his voice making it clear that it is not up for negotiation.

Steve looks pointedly down at Jack’s feet.

“There are other ways out,” Jack points out. “Which you would know if you were in any way a half decent tactician.”

“It was a short notice assignment,” Steve says, matching mocking Jack’s tone. “What other way?”

“The wine cellar,” Jack says and holds his arm out in a sweeping gesture towards the door, “assuming you can make short work of that as well.”

“There will be guards,” Steve reminds him, already eying up the weak spots in the door. It’s heavy and ornate and lined with steel beneath the wooden panels, but the frame around it is old, the stone soft and easily broken apart under pressure. “The window really would be easier.”

“Try taking me out the window and I promise you, I’ll hit the ground head first.” It might be an empty threat, but Steve remembers the chain and he remembers the bitter words Jack spoke about them. King Silas had thought him suicidal. Probably best not put it to the test.

“Fine,” Steve scowls, “but you do what I tell you, when I tell you to do it, clear?” He doesn’t for one second imagine Jack will actually do as he is told. Every instinct he has as a soldier is telling him to lay Jack out cold and carry him out of the window like he planned.

But…

But nothing. He can’t explain it. There’s something in Jack’s eyes that Steve knows is a reflection of himself and he can’t in good conscience add to the distrust that is wrapped around him like a cloak.

“ _Rogers_ ,” Romanov warns, “ _Forty five seconds until shift change_.”

He reaches into his ear and pulls the tiny bud from its resting place, then squashes it like a bug between his fingers. Romanov will be pissed. “Just keep behind me,” he says to Jack.

It’s too much to hope for gratitude. He gets more sarcasm instead. “Why? Are you bulletproof under all that spangle?”

Steve’s mouth pulls into a tight, grim line. He spins around and kicks the door - and its frame - right through the wall, showering them both with debris. “Something like that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which escapes are made and cliches are indulged in. 
> 
> Also, Jack is in wet silk pjs. You're welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the kisses to [Brenda](http://brendaonao3.tumblr.com) for the epic edit.

There’s no time to deal with wide eyed wonder. The element of surprise is short lived. Steve goes through the hole first. He has a split second - less - to drag Jack through after him. Then the guards are on them. Jack ducks as a soldier - attracted by the thundering sound of crumbling rubble – charges towards them. Steve reaches over the top of Jack's shoulder: hits his target square on and knocks him out cold. 

Already there are two more at the end of the hall and he keenly feels the absence of his shield. Jack shoves him hard **.**  Steve hits the ground on his knees as a bullet wings past his head.  He lets the momentum of his fall slide him forward, then rebounds off the opposite wall. From there he can take them both down with one swinging kick.

They go down before they know what hits them. Jack’s eyebrow climbs in consideration. “Not just a pretty face then,” he says, somehow managing to sound completely unimpressed, despite his expression.

Steve rolls his eyes and extends his arm in an exaggerated parody of a bow. “Shall we?”

Jack takes a moment to arm himself with the weapons left abandoned by their unconscious owners. “By all means,” he says, checking to make sure his rifle is loaded and ready to go. “There’s only one way down - other than the window,” he adds, before Steve can comment. 

Steve holds for a moment, then sticks his head around the doorway. No one.  _ Yet _ . But he can hear the sounds of approaching footfall. They aren’t going to be alone for long.

For all that he’s planned for a quiet, clandestine mission, the prospect of a fight actually settles some of the unease in his gut:  _ this _ , he knows.

He doesn’t have to speak. Jack is a soldier: he assesses body movement. The gestures Steve is familiar with might not be the exact same as the ones Jack knows, but the basics can’t be far off. Hold. Advance. Simple enough.

They move quickly towards the stairs and onto the landing space at the top. The stairs spiral down almost forty feet in a dizzying corkscrew of stone and polished wood. Soldiers are already swarming up them.

“I wasn’t expecting you to knock a wall down.” Jack shrugs. “Not exactly subtle.”

He’s heard that before. 

Swearing under his breath, Steve pulls Jack around to the top of the stairs. “Please,” he slings an arm around Jack’s back, “do not kick me again.” That’s all the warning he gives before hauls him off his feet and vaults them both over the banister.

The floors fall away in a blur; fortunately for them, they aren’t shot during the descent. It’s unlikely anyone was expecting them to jump. Steve takes the full brunt of the landing and feels the pain shooting up his legs and hips as he sets Jack down.He ignores it, and pushes on. Swings out into a large hallway in time for Jack to slam the butt of his rifle into the face of one of the straggling response team.

It’s shockingly easy to fight with Jack at his side. It’s not like… not like Bucky. Nothing will ever be like Bucky. Steve doesn’t think he will ever have that level of compatibility with another soldier ever, but Jack is well trained and he’s ruthlessly efficient. He’s also, apparently, completely unflappable and takes to being thrown down flights of stairs with impressive aplomb. Steve likes it. Better an unimpressed ally than a babbling deadweight.

The back of Jack’s hand hits Steve’s arm once, silently directing his attention to a large tapestry hanging at the end of the hall. It’s ugly as sin and probably even older than Steve, but Jack heads right for it, then steps behind it, vanishing from sight.

Huh. Useful.

They emerge in a dark corridor that clearly hasn’t been used in some time. It’s stuffy and dusty, and Steve is only able to navigate it as well as he can because of the serum. Jack rests a hand on his shoulder and Steve takes the opportunity to guide him through the darkness. He cringes as his boots crunch on the uneven floor. Jack’s feet are going to be a mess by the end of this.

The path they are on leads steadily downward, until Steve turns a corner and stumbles into knee deep water. He’s able to balance himself before Jack falls in after him.

“Will you please let me carry you?” Steve will plead if he has to. “Rescues aren't supposed to end with septic shock.”

It doesn’t smell like sewage, but it doesn’t smell good either. Steve’s suit protects him from the worst of it, but Jack’s silk pajamas are practically useless.

“I’ll risk it,” Jack says curtly, the water splashing as he steps into it.

“Suit yourself.”

He isn’t sure if this is the route Jack had planned to take them, but eventually they reach a dead end. “Give me a boost,” Jack orders, circling around Steve until he has his back to the wall.

Steve laces his fingers together obligingly and crouches a little for Jack to brace one foot against them. Jack's pajamas are now wet all the way up to his thighs.

Giving a grunt of exertion, Jack straightens his leg and lets Steve take his weight as he reaches up above them and scrabbles his fingers across the ceiling. He swears under his breath, his leg – his whole body really – trembling with exhaustion, then there's a click and Jack makes a pleased sound as the tunnel floods with light.

Steve gives him another boost and he climbs up through the open trapdoor. Jack reaches down to give Steve a hand. The gesture is oddly touching. Most people are so used to fighting with Captain America that they don’t consider Steve in need of help in any way. And he’s doesn't, but…

“Wine cellar,” Jack says, as Steve looks around at the vast number of bottles lined up on shelves.

At the far end of the vast cavern is a ramp that leads up to another trapdoor in the ceiling. This one is held together with a padlock. Jack looks at him expectantly.

Steve is careful to only tear the chains apart and not the whole door this time.

This time he's the first one out and a cool sting of the fresh wind smacks him in the face as he emerges. They're at the back of the palace where the kitchens and the workrooms are located. The barracks are in sight, too, but since everyone is on call looking for them, there is no one on duty outside it. They're in the clear.

At least that’s what he  _ thinks _ .

He’s just climbed out onto the pebbled drive when a floodlight suddenly illuminates the space around him and the air splits with the screech of alarms.

He reaches back into the cellar and unceremoniously drags Jack out by the arm.

Jack had gotten them this far – albeit with considerably more drama than Steve’s plan– but Steve isn’t going to wait around to hear any other options.

Keeping one hand tight around Jack’s bicep, Steve hauls him out of the spotlight and towards the gardens. Jack follows, diverting Steve’s course with a tug when they see the light aimed in their direction.

They stick to the lawn as much as they can, but within a minute the entire garden is lit up with lights, and the places for them to hide are torn away. A bullet speeds past Steve’s ear, shattering a stone sculpture beside him. Another hits the ground in front of his feet; he jerks Jack sideways and diverts their course again.

Through the gaps in the landscaping and shrubbery, Steve sees the tall, looming shape of the palace walls. They're lit up and illuminated, but they aren’t lined with barbed wire like most of the walls Steve is used to scaling.

He drags Jack towards it, making the calculations as they run. “You walked out of the palace!” Steve shouts as another bullet narrowly misses Jack’s shoulder.

Jack gets the message and nods jerkily.

Steve doesn’t stop to give him time to change his mind. He uses his grip on Jack’s arm to swing him around until Jack can wrap his arms around Steve’s neck. Then Steve, reaching behind him to press Jack firm against his back, takes a running jump at the wall. It’s over fifteen feet high – too high for Jack to scale – but not too high for Steve.  He uses the elevation of his jump to scramble up the wall until he can grip the top of it, then drags them both over the side to drop to the street below.

Jack loosens his grip from around Steve’s neck as soon as they're back on the ground. “You’re part cat, aren’t you?”

Steve shrugs. “I’ve been called worse.”

“I can imagine,” Jack responds. “Can I presume you had  _ some _ kind of extraction plan once you made it out of the palace?”

The answer to that is yes. He’s going to get an earful from Romanov when they make it to the RV, but it’s likely better than the verbal ass-kicking she’d have given him if he’d left the radio live during their less-than-subtle escape.

“There’s a car waiting for us.” Barton is ten blocks down, outside the lockdown zone that's put into place when palace security is breached. “You good to go?”

The look Jack shoots him is particularly withering. “ _ Or _ we could stay here and get shot?”

Steve doesn’t dignify that with a response.

There’s no singular path to take them from the edge of the palace to the RV. The streets are illuminated and any second now, curious people are going to start pouring out into them, inconsiderate of Steve and Jack’s need for secrecy.

Jack knows the city better than he does, and he leads the way, sharp and alert, his rifle tucked against his shoulder. Steve can see the tension in his neck and shoulders through the silk shirt. He’s still professional, but this taste of freedom has no doubt sharpened the fear he probably hasn’t allowed himself to feel for some time.

They both hear the stomp of footsteps headed their way and for a split second their eyes meet. There are only some many ways out of this.

They could break into one of the buildings. Take refuge there. It would buy them some time, but it would also increase the risk of them getting pinned down and trapped in the city. Right now, the response is limited to the palace soldiers and surrounding patrols, but in an hour Silas will have an army within the walls and the entire city on lockdown. They need to leave  _ now _ .

He moves to push Jack behind him, ready to fight.

Instead, Jack grabs a fistful of Steve's uniform to drag him to the side of the alley. Steve follows, trusting his judgment and his greater knowledge of the environment, and allows himself to be swung around until his back is to the main street. 

With the thunderous pounding of approaching soldiers, Jack grunts, hauls Steve so close that there is scarcely air between them, and slams their mouths together.

For what feels like eternity, Steve just stands there, utterly dumbstruck. Jack pushes him back and glares up at him, his face pale against the dark brick behind him.

“Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable.”

Steve nods frantically. “Yes, they do.” They also make  _ him _ uncomfortable, but not for the reasons Steve might have imagined.

“Please tell me you’ve kissed someone before.” There's a sharp, assessing gleam in Jack’s eyes that suggests he won’t be very surprised if Steve says no. The footsteps are so close now Steve can feel the vibrations in the ground. The heartbeats he can hear are no longer just his own and Jack’s. He can almost taste the sweet and cologne and metal that hang in the air. So close. 

“Not under imminent threat of death, no,” he lies, thinking of Peggy and the last time he saw her.

That eases some of the sharpness in Jack’s eyes, but not much. “Just close your eyes and think of America,” he says sarcastically. “Now kiss me before we  _ both _ get shot.”

He gets what Jack is doing. The two of them, clandestine lovers meeting for a moonlit embrace, too caught up in each other to notice the world around them. Not a traitor prince and a foreign soldier.  _ They _ would run and keep running. Steve is just not sure he can pull it off. He's kissed people before, of course he has, but this kind of passion isn't something he indulges in often. Ever, really.

But he cups Jack’s cheek in his hand, his palm large, rough. It shields much of Jack’s face from the pale lamplight and hides him from eyes that might gaze too closely. It draws a startled look to Jack’s face, one that draws from Steve a swell of protectiveness that surprises him. He wonders how long it has been since Jack has been touched with kindness. 

Now isn’t the time for it. They are  _ seconds _ away from discovery.

But Steve can’t bring himself to be rough, not when it is clear that roughness is what is expected. He holds Jack's face with more gentleness than the occasion warrants, then leans in close and presses their lips together.

Jack yields for him at once. Steve knows it's for the sake of the diversion, not because he wants this. But it's easy to pretend otherwise. He takes the kiss deeper, pushes Jack tighter against the wall, hiding him from sight. 

It’s not like kissing Peggy. She'd actually been more forceful a kisser than Jack, despite his initial instigation. Jack lets Steve take the lead; but while his body might be soft and pliant in Steve's arms, there’s nothing of him in the kiss. He might as well still be behind the towering palace walls for all the closeness Steve feels to him.

It’s just a distraction. A ploy. It’s not like he’d be kissing Steve for any other reason.

But then. Just for a second, Jack moans. His mouth softens sweetly as the sound is lost to Steve’s mouth, and he melts; ice giving way to heat. Kissing him feels  **real** . His lips tingle and his heart pounds and the world fades away into white-hued oblivion as Steve loses himself in the sensation of being so close to another person.

It doesn’t last. Just a second. Just long enough for Steve to question if this is even  **real** .

He leans back enough to separate them. The world snaps into color. Jack opens his eyes. They're cautious and confused, but it's several seconds before he tears them away from Steve’s to scout out the street.

“I think they're gone,” he says, with a cough.

“Yes,” Steve agrees. He can’t hear anyone close by. His hand is still on Jack’s face. He gently removes it, and doesn’t think he imagines the tiny jerk of Jack’s head, almost as if he wants to lean deeper into the touch.

“We should -“

“Yes.” This time Steve is able to pull himself away. He takes a step back and tells himself it's to give Jack a moment to recover. Then he holds out his arm and gestures to the empty street. “Lets get you some place safe.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint is a terrible getaway driver, Steve does not have his shit together, and Jack continues to be suspicious as hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many kisses and thanks to Brenda for the beat! <3

**CHAPTER THREE**

 

“This was not the plan!” That’s the first thing Clint says when Steve and Jack stumble out of a side street and make their way to the car. “At no point did the plan include any of  _ this _ !” He waves his hands around in a mad underscoring of his point – and very much  _ not _ driving the goddamn car.

“Can we discuss this later?!” Steve demands, hustling Jack into the seat beside him. “Maybe  _ after  _ we’ve escaped?”

“We can do both,” Clint says firmly. “I’m a modern man and I can multitask. You know Nat is going to kill you, right? Death. Actual death – Major Benjamin,” he breaks off-mid rant to nod respectfully at Jack and then launches right back into it, “– and that’s before Fury gets to you. Oh my god, we’re all dead. We should drive to Canada and assume new identities.”

“I’m assuming that’s not the plan then?” Jack asks Steve.

Steve shakes his head and resists the urge to throw Clint out the window. “Will you just drive?!”

“Your professionalism is overwhelming,” Jack tells Steve, his arms crossed over his chest. “Really. First class operation you’re running here. And fasten your safety belt,” he tells Steve, who ignores him.

“I’m totally professional.” Clint frowns, finally putting the car into gear and moving.

“Then why are we headed back towards the palace?” Jack asks, with one eye on the road, and the other one on Clint.

“Shortcut.”

“He does actually know what he’s doing,” Steve says; though, in reality he has no actual proof of this. He’s never worked with Clint before. “Despite appearances.”

“Says the man in blue spandex,” Clint throws back, suddenly jerking the wheel so hard to the left that Steve and Jack bump together painfully.

“I told you it looks ridiculous,” says Jack.

“I’m well aware,” Steve says. “What’s our ETA?”

Clint jerks the wheel again, driving over a sidewalk and narrowly avoiding a stop sign. “Assuming we make it out of the city without anyone killing us? It’s an hour to Ft. Mead. Hey, you mind if I put the radio on? Music helps my getaway driving.”

Jack and Steve share a glance; Steve thinks they're bonding more over their shared bewilderment of Clint than their previous near death experience. “Sure,” Steve says.

“It’ll be educational,” Clint continues, not taking his eyes off the road as he starts to fiddle with the dial. “Bring you up to date with the tunes. It’s not all Charlestons and Lindy Hops anymore.” He pauses, then lights up in delight. “You know what? I bet you’re a Blues kinda guy.”

Steve doesn’t know what kind of guy he is. None of the brief soundbytes he’s heard in the few days since his defrosting have sounded at all familiar to him. Catching up on the musical developments of the past century hasn’t been his priority so far, and he doubts that’s about to change. He has more pressing concerns. Like what the fuck happened to his country.

And in the seat next to him, Jack is trembling violently.

It’s the cold. Or the shock. Or the adrenaline draining from his body now that he is, finally, somewhere safe. Relatively, anyway. Steve reaches out and gently touches a hand to a tense shoulder. Jack flinches, but it is a small, well hidden thing. Steve barely catches it, but he files it away for examination later.

“Are you alright?” he asks. It must be overwhelming, being held prisoner by one's own father one minute, then being rescued by a complete stranger the next. If that is the case though, Jack is too reserved to admit to it. There’s a second, just like there was in the alley, where Steve catches a glimpse of something vulnerable and needy behind all that ice, but it is gone just as quickly as before.

“I’m spectacular,” Jack says, “thank you.”

But he’s still trembling. Steve can feel how cold he is beneath the thin fabric of his clothes. “Turn the heat up,” he orders Clint, who doesn’t argue. The guy’s a terrible getaway driver but he’s also been one of the more compassionate S.H.I.E.L.D agents Steve has encountered since thawing. He’s been casual and undemanding with his friendliness and that’s meant a lot. He turns up the heat and looks back at them through the mirror.

“Are you hurt, sir?” he asks. He calls Steve ‘Cap’, sometimes ‘Captain’, but there is an informality and familiarity in the way he addresses Steve that's missing when he talks to Jack. Almost as if Clint has just up and decided he and Steve are going to be pals, but hasn’t made his mind up about the prince they have rescued.

“I’m fine, thank you” Jack says. There’s a lot less animosity in his voice than there is when he talks to Steve. Good to know the antipathy is entirely personal.

“There’s a first aid kit on the plane,” Clint says. “Medic, too, and Bruce - Doc Banner - will want to check you over once we land.”

“You haven’t told me where I'm being taken.” 

Clint glares at Steve via the mirror. “You didn’t tell him?”

“It didn’t come up!” Steve protests. “Besides,” he says to Jack, “I didn’t want you to think I was only there because of a mission and not because you didn’t deserve to be kept locked up like that.”

“But you  _ did _ only rescue me because of a mission. So the question then is why do S.H.I.E.L.D want me?” Neither Steve or Clint so much as twitch.

Clint raises an eyebrow. “S.H.I.E.L.D is supposed to be a secret. Like, secret government agency kinda secret,” he says. Steve doesn’t admit to the fact that he told Jack who he was working for.

“I’m -  _ was _ \- the Crown Prince of a country your ‘secret’ agency has been trying to destabilize since the day we declared our Independence from the Former United States,” Jack says. There’s so much in that sentence Steve wants to focus on: Jack’s insistence that he is no longer Crown Prince is one, but the other, more painful topic is the state of the country he has returned to. He’s supposed to be Captain America, but America no longer exists. One day he’ll have the space and the time to process everything, and that's the day he’ll have to either accept that he and so many of his friends died for nothing, or lose his mind to the madness of it all.

“I…that’s a fair point,” Clint agrees. “You’re not freaking out.”

“Well, you want me alive for something,” Jack says. “I’m worthless to you as a hostage for ransom, but I have some value as an informant.”

“Is that what you think we’re doing?  _ Kidnapping _ you?” Steve asks, horrified. Jack had said something similar back in the palace, but Steve had just assumed it was indignation at the thought of being carried down the side of a building. “Why come with me? Why help us escape?” 

_ Why kiss me _ ? he thinks.

“My father was never going to let me out of that room,” Jack says, his voice flat and free of emotion. “Even if I managed to give him what he wanted, I was never going to be free. Statistically, I stood a greater chance of escaping while with you than I did chained to a bed.”

“I - you  _ stood _ ?” It hasn’t escaped him that Jack is speaking in the past tense.

“That was before I saw you drop kick your way through a stone wall,” Jack says. He's almost smiling now, but not in a nice way. “I’m under no illusion that I can take you in a fight, or escape from you if you wanted to pursue me.” 

Steve hadn’t even imagined that scenario. But now, he pictures exactly that - of Jack running, and him following. Knowing what he knows now, Steve would let him go, but he doesn’t imagine Jack would believe him. 

“So I'm your prisoner,” Jack says, that cold, nasty smile growing. “I will co-operate where I can. I’ve no desire to find out exactly how strong you really are. But –" there is a brief moment of hesitation, barely perceptible, and a shadow of something haunted in his eyes, “– if you expect me to betray my country, you will find me most… difficult. I have no love or allegiance to the King, but the people are my people and I will not help you harm them.”

It’s the most Jack has said so far and it almost sounds as if he’s been practicing the words in his head. There’s bravery there that Steve can respect, stubbornness too, and a practical understanding of the situation as he sees it. There’s also resignation. Jack is expecting them to mistreat him. How can Steve be surprised when his own family starved and chained him?

“Holy fucking shit!” Clint exclaims. “Buddy, you have totally got the wrong end of the stick here. This is a rescue, okay? We?” He points to himself and then at Steve, “are the  _ good _ guys. No one is gonna hurt you. No one is gonna make you do anything you don’t want to do. Jesus, you’re talking to Captain fucking America! You can’t seriously think we’re gonna what? Lock you up and break out the thumb screws? For what? Access codes? Military secrets?”

Only that’s exactly what Jack thinks. According to the briefing Steve read before leaving, Jack has been a prisoner for nearly three years now, but before that he was a high ranking officer in the Army. He is - was - Crown Prince. His information might not be up to date in terms of encryption, but he’d be a serious boon to anyone looking to compromise Gilboan security.

When Jack doesn’t respond - and okay, it’s not like he’s just going to take their word that they aren’t going to torture him for information - Clint starts swearing again.

“Jesus, Cap! You’re supposed to be the inspiring type! If we wanted to go on a grab and bag, Romanov and I woulda done it!”

“Maybe you  _ should _ have.” 

“Why did they send you?” Jack asks Steve. “You’re upset by the suggestion that you’d hurt me, but he’s not–“ he looks at Clint, who scowls at them both.

“Only half true!” Clint protests.

“S.H.I.E.L.D has a reputation that even our spin doctors don’t need to put much work into demonizing,” Jack says flattly. Then he looks at Steve, sharp and assessing. “You aren’t S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Steve is surprised by how quickly he finds himself agreeing. “I’m not.”

“Then what are you?”

He thinks back to the palace and to Jack’s question then.  _ Who the hell are you? _

“I’m Captain America,” he says, knowing it holds even less weight now than it did back when he wore tights.

“Captain America is dead,” Jack says. “A propaganda tool from an age long passed.” Nothing has changed there then. Steve hasn’t even stopped to consider the ways in which his life and death might have been spun in the years that he has been gone.

“Well dead guy just saved your ass,” Clint says.

“Believe me if you want to, or don’t,” Steve says quietly. “I can’t force you. But I can promise you, on my honor, that I will not allow anyone - S.H.I.E.L.D or otherwise - to hurt you.”

Jack laughs and turns to look out of the window, his shoulders forming a barrier that tells Steve the conversation is done. “Honor would have to mean something for that to hold any weight with me.”

The rest of the trip, though short, is agonizing. Steve can tell Clint is pissed at how he handled the situation. He can’t even blame the guy. Nothing about this mission has gone as planned. His head isn’t in it. His heart isn’t even in this century.

And Jack has him completely off guard.

He can’t explain why. He doesn’t know what it is about the prince who is equal parts infuriating and intriguing. Not for the first time since he’s woken up he aches with the need to seek advice.

Peggy would be most helpful in finding a way into Jack’s head. She is - was - better with people than just about anyone Steve has ever known.

But it's Bucky his heart aches to speak with the most. Bucky might only be -  _ have been _ \- sixteen and he might not have  -  _ have had  _ \- much experience of relationships, but no one knows -  _ knew _ \- Steve like him.

Peggy is no doubt long dead by now, and Bucky is… well, Steve watched him die. Steve  _ let _ him die.

He’s lost in his head again, going under as easily as breathing and all he can see is white. All he can hear is static. White noise. A radio without a signal and then out of nowhere: Bucky’s voice, steady and calm and so, so brave.

_ “It’s okay Steve. It’s okay. Let me go _ . _ ” _

He doesn’t remember moving.

He must though. When the white fades from behind his eyes, it’s blue he finds himself looking into. Up close, Jack’s face is a flawlessly beautiful example of symmetry in nature. Steve doesn’t question why Jack so close. He doesn’t question anything at all. He just lets the part of his soul that is given over to art map out the lines and the details of sharply refined features, committing them to memory one at a time.

When he reaches the point where he knows he could draw Jack’s face with his eyes closed, he takes a deep shuddering breath, and comes back to himself all at once.

Jack is in his lap. He has his thighs on either side of Steve’s and his hands braced against Steve's shoulders, pressing him back against the seat. He’s not pinning Steve down - he couldn’t even if he tried - but he is holding him in place as best he can.

“Why the fuck,” he asks with a new, different kind of rage in his voice, “have you put this man in the field?”

It’s Clint he’s talking to, not Steve. His voice is cold but his eyes and his smile are gentle. With his walls down, Jack Benjamin is breathtaking.

Embarrassed by the unthinkable display of weakness and unprofessionalism, Steve tries to apologize. “I…I’m sorry, I don’t know what just-“ Shame floods his cheeks.

Jack looks at him with careful assessment, then slides down to sit beside him. “You had a panic attack,” he says. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I didn’t. I’m not.” Steve doesn’t panic. Steve  _ can’t _ panic. He has a job to do. He has lives he is responsible for. Only he doesn’t, does he? Not anymore. He has nothing. Nothing but a skin he doesn’t fit in and the ghost of a boy who sacrificed himself so that Steve might live and do… whatever the fuck he’s here doing.

In the front of the car, Clint is silent, and Steve wonders if he’ll say anything when they make it back to HQ. He should. It’s his job to report on anything that impedes Steve’s ability to carry out his job safely and effectively. But there is sympathy in his eyes. Understanding. Just like in Jack’s.

It takes him a second to realize that Jack is holding his hand. It’s the cold that Steve notices first. Jack’s fingers are long, slender, and as cold as the ice Steve had died in. But they hold on firmly, grounding him, while Jack himself seems to be ignoring him completely. He’s staring out the window, walls back up but partly scaled. He’s giving Steve some privacy and all the while holding him firmly tethered to reality. Steve could let go. 

He doesn’t. He clings on tightly, selfishly, and lets himself regroup.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There’s a new name for it now, what you’re going through. What you’re feeling. There’s been a lot of research.”
> 
> “Into men frozen in blocks of ice for a few decades and change?” Gallows humor is something Steve understands instinctively. It’s a default by now. Jack probably gets it as well.
> 
> “They called it, what, shell shock back in your day?”
> 
> “Combat exhaustion,” Steve corrects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million and ten thank you kisses to Brenda, who kicked both my ass and my commas into touch with her beta!! <3
> 
> Far too much time went into plotting the geography of this world. I really should draw up a map, or something...
> 
> For added feels, [take a look](http://stevetopsbuckysbottom.tumblr.com/post/158205941893/a-love-like-war-by-boopboop-boopifer-four) at the awesome playlist Leelee made!

 

The country of Gilboa occupies the lands that used to form the borders between Virginia and North Carolina. It stretches almost as far west as West Virginia and ends just over fifty miles short of what was once the stateline between North Carolina and Maryland. Above that sits the stretch of land known as the Disputed Territory. Steve’s home - former home - of New York now exists only as part of Garth. 

Wedged into a space between crates bearing weapons and rations, Steve has a glossy StarkPad propped up on one knee as he skims through the last seventy years of world history. He's skimming because there is so much - too much - and it’s overwhelming trying to find a place to start, let alone dig into. Occasionally, someone will pass him by. While they are smart enough and polite enough not to bother him, they do go wide eyed, and Steve doesn’t think it’s the uniform, no matter what Jack says about it. Yes, he’s only been thawed out a few days. Yes, the StarkPad is very fancy and very shiny. Far too modern and high tech for an old man like Cap. They seem to forget that Steve is the original Super Soldier. He let a lunatic and a dreamer shoot him up with vials of glowing substances with only their say so that everything would work. And then, with no guidance whatsoever, he learned how to use his new, terrifyingly competent body while being shot at, thrown out of planes, and pitted against deranged Nazi cultists. He’s something of an expert at mastering steep learning curves. 

Instead of trying to get his head around everything he has missed, he focuses on Gilboa. On this mission, and specifically on Jack. There is plenty of information. Jack Benjamin, the party prince. Jack Benjamin, the decorated soldier. Jack Benjamin, traitor to the crown. The Royal Family of Gilboa seem to have a firm hand in shaping the public perception of their household, but even their near dominating control of the media doesn’t stop the gossip and speculation. After a short, but bloody, Civil War, both Jack Benjamin and his sister Michelle vanished. Jack, Steve knows, was kept prisoner in his own home. Michelle is an unknown entity. 

“Bit late to be brushing up, don’t you think?” Sneaking up on Steve is a dangerous thing to do. Jack is smart enough to stay out of arm’s reach, but Steve can’t help but be unnerved that he’s got so close in the first place. 

He spots Clint at the far end of the hanger. If Jack is here, then he’s been given the all clear by Dr Banner and Dr Cho. That’s good. Which means, as soon as they land, Steve can hand him over to Director Fury and find himself a nice hole to regroup in. 

“Your Highness.” Steve sets down the StarkPad and thinks he does a good enough job of hiding how uncomfortable he is feeling. “Or should I be calling you Major Benjamin?”

Jack, freshly shaved and cleaned up, shrugs his shoulders casually. “I’m not a prince or a soldier anymore. Jack is fine.” 

He  _ says _ he’s neither, but he wears the black S.H.I.E.L.D issue jumpsuit with the ease of a man used to being in uniform, and there is no denying the quiet authority in the set of his shoulders. Despite the events of the last few years, he is still a man used to issuing orders. He is still a man who expects to be obeyed.

“Jack? Good luck getting anyone to call you that where we’re going.” Steve’s smile is only a shade bitter. Sure, he’d been Captain Rogers back home and people had called him Cap just as much there as they do here. But there, he’d had Bucky, who’d used his name and affectionate insults as if they were interchangeable, and Peggy, who’d whispered ‘Steve’ in a way no one else ever could.

He and Jack have both fallen into customary at-ease stances, more comfortable with the formality of speaking officer to officer than at any point prior. Steve can still recall the taste of Jack’s mouth against his own, but the more he refuses to think about it, the easier it is to convince himself it never happened. It’s impossible to know if Jack is doing the same. He’s even more unreadable now he’s found his footing: formidable in a way Steve is probably supposed to be and could never manage, costume or no costume. Not for the first time, he wishes he could change out of the clingy, luridly bright outfit, and the feeling only grows as Jack’s sharp gaze tracks him up and down, from his fixed smile to the toes of his blue boots. 

“Would you rather I call you Steve or Captain Rogers?” He ignores Steve’s comment entirely and takes control of the conversation. Something about the way he says  _ Captain _ makes Steve’s spine straighten. 

“Steve is fine,” he says. Then, awkwardly, “I want to apologize. For what happened in the car. It was unprofessional and -”

“I cannot pluck out my mind’s eye,” Jack interrupts, his expression knowing.

“ _ Really _ ? Shakespeare?”

“Badly misquoted,” Jack says ruefully, “I never paid much attention when I was at school.”

“Why do I think you’re lying?” Steve asks. “And regardless, that was not the time or the place to be-”

Jack holds up a hand. Steve falls immediately silent. 

“Agent Barton has been filling me in on your role within S.H.I.E.L.D. He’s quite impressed with you.”

At the far end of the hanger, Clint is chattering away into a phone. When he catches Steve looking at him, he grins and flashes him a thumbs up.

“And?” 

“You’re either in on the most elaborate hoax I have  _ ever _ seen, or you’re in an even shittier position than I am.” 

Steve laughs. “Like they could pay anyone enough to pretend to be comfortable in this get-up.” He doesn’t know why he’s hoping to make Jack smile, and he can’t explain the disappointment he feels when the joke passes without a flicker in Jack’s expression. “You look like you would rather I was lying to you.” 

“I was always taught that two plus two equals four. If it looks like a supersoldier and acts like a supersoldier and can kick down walls like a supersoldier…” Jack shakes his head. “But yes. It would be easier if you were lying to me.”

The pragmatism isn’t as surprising as it could be. “I think you’re the first person to ever look disappointed when they find out who I am.” 

“I’m not disappointed,” Jack says quickly. “I’m…” For the first time since the conversation started, Steve can see something more beyond the cool veneer. 

“You fellas ready to land?” Clint suddenly calls, his voice loud enough to carry over both space and the engines below them. 

They both snap out of their casual stance, and Steve calls back, “We’ll be right over.”

It’s easy to match pace with Jack, as they walk towards the main body of the carrier. 

Clint turns away from them, distracted by a call from beyond the platform. Steve acts quickly, grabbing Jack by the elbow and drawing him up short, an echo of an earlier promise in his words. “I don’t know what they want with you,” he says, “but I swear on my life, I won't let them hurt you. You’ll be safe with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

He expects more sharp cynicism, more sarcastic smirking. Instead Jack looks him in the eye, not trying to pull away from Steve’s hold. “Funny,” he says, “I was going to say the same thing to you.” He looks away, contemplative, then turns to meet Steve’s gaze again. “About the car. There’s a new name for it now, what you’re going through. What you’re feeling. There’s been a lot of research.”

“Into men frozen in blocks of ice for a few decades and change?” Gallows humor is something Steve understands instinctively. It’s a default by now. Jack probably gets it as well. 

“They called it, what, shell shock back in your day?”

“Combat exhaustion,” Steve corrects. That was the term they started using in '43. Then phrases like ‘war neurosis’ and ‘operational fatigue’. All very clinical words for describing the kind of horrors Steve has seen festering in the eyes of men who were oh-so-easily labeled cowards. The Allies were marginally kinder to their afflicted troops, but it was a narrow margin.    

Jack nods thoughtfully. “We call it PTSD now. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. There are a lot of good treatments out there. Ones that don’t involve frying your brain.”

Steve, who has coaxed the terrified out of bunkers, inspired courage in the hopeless and soothed the nightmares of men under his command, bristles.

“That’s not necessary,” he says, and then, because even  _ he's _ cringing at the sharpness in his tone, he adds, “but thank you.”

Jack shoots him that same shrewd look he’d worn in the car, but doesn’t push.

They land in what was once Wyoming, and the cold air stings their faces as they transfer from the plane to a Jeep. It’s fancier than the ones Steve remembers, but just as uncomfortable. 

Jack is silent as they drive into the hills, carefully tracking their route, and no doubt coming to the conclusion that, even without Steve as a deterrent, his odds of escape are rapidly turning towards a cold and unpleasant death from exposure. Jack might be pragmatic, he might be playing ball, but if Steve were in his shoes he would be keeping his options open.

“I’ve said right from the start,” Barton chatters, willfully oblivious to Jack’s guarded posture and Steve’s lack of interest, “that we should have taken the secret lair that came with its own volcano. Yes, more chance of spontaneous eruptions but consider this: no frostbite in your toes.” When Jack points to the volcano that is literally on the horizon, Barton rolls his eyes and says, “ _ Tropical volcanoes _ . You know, the ones that come with pools and coconuts."

As a kid, Steve’d always wanted to see more of the world. Italy, Germany, England, and now he can add the Rockies to the list of places he’s visited under less than enjoyable circumstances. They reach a large hanger set in the side of one of the mountains and he allows himself a few moments to admire the beauty of the land they are in. This area used to be known as Yellowstone Park. Now it seems to be used solely for military purposes, nature scarred by industry. It’s a good stronghold, though it makes Steve wonder exactly what it is they're fortifying against.

Climbing out of the vehicle, Barton - who hasn’t stopped talking the entire drive - herds them into an elevator that takes them shooting up into the kind of lair that Bucky used to describe in the sci-fi comics he’d read aloud around a campfire. 

It lets out into a long corridor and waiting next to an open door is Nick Fury, who manages to look at ease and impatient all at once. 

Fury, Steve knows, from his less than auspicious arrival into this new century. The man standing beside Fury, however, is someone new. Tall, with elegant features and an air of unquestionable authority - a man who is at the top of the chain and comfortable with all the responsibilities that brings.

“Alexander Pierce,” he says, holding out a hand first to Jack, then to Steve, as Fury leads their group into a large office. “I’ve got to say that this is…” he steps back, smiling in amazement, “wow. Incredible.” 

“Secretary Pierce is our representative on the World Security Council,” Fury explains, directing Steve’s gaze to the far wall, where four silhouetted figures are monitoring floor to ceiling screens constantly updating streams of information. “He’s the one who gave the orders for Captain Rogers to retrieve you, Major.”

Steve is never usually one for following the chain of command when it doesn’t suit him, but in this case he is happy to let Jack take the lead. The office is unlike anything he has seen before, even in his eventful first few days. It’s elegant and luxurious, but still practical. The private nerve centre of an intricate network. 

“Not that I'm ungrateful,” Jack says diplomatically, taking in the room with a careful sweep of his eyes, “but no one has actually explained yet why you felt it necessary.”

The Secretary looks momentarily pained. “That’s my fault, I’m afraid,” he says, the authority he exudes in no ways diminishing with the admission. “I don’t suppose you remember me at all?”

Steve can’t get a gauge on Jack’s reaction without turning his head. His instincts tell him it's more important to continue to play the part of the disinterested soldier - the hired muscle - so he can only take the tone of Jack’s voice as his cue. 

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, with a polite politician’s insincerity, “should I?”

Pierce shakes his head. “I’d be surprised if you did, to be honest.” He invites them to take one of the plush couches. Steve sits only because it would be unnecessarily confrontational to remain standing, but he feels stiff and awkward. Jack looks none of those things, leaning back with a casual confidence Steve is now almost certain he's faking. “You and Michelle were both young children when I saw you last.” 

If the revelation of a personal connection is supposed to provoke a reaction, Jack’s stoic expression has to be disappointing. “You knew my parents?” 

“Your mother, yes. We grew up together. We were great friends, for a long time.”

“Let me guess,” Jack leans forward. “She met my father and that was the end of that.”

Pierce smiles. “Not quite so cut and dry, but I suppose it’s one way of putting it. Your father and I had… shall we say, differing ideas on how to bring peace to the region that is now Gilboa. I was in favor of a union with Garth. He was very much  _ not, _ . to the point where he actually threatened to have me executed for treason. Not that I'm a Gilboan citizen. I think he just likes the word ‘treason’.” 

Pierce is making light of the situation, but the look in Jack’s eyes is dark and ugly. He visibly stews on the words, probably trying to decide where to start with his line of questioning. Steve doesn’t know Fury well, but he’s spent enough time with the man to know that he doesn’t do anything without good cause. Jack being the son of a childhood friend isn’t a good enough reason for a man like him to risk war. 

Jack seems to be in agreement, because he responds by saying, “That doesn’t explain why you sent the Star Spangled Man With A Plan to invade the sovereignty of a foreign nation to –” He pauses, glances at Steve, and the edge of his mouth lifts into the smallest smile, “–  _ liberate _ me.”

“I suppose sentimentality isn’t going to cut it?” Pierce asks. 

Jack raises one perfectly eloquent eyebrow in response. 

“No, I thought not.” After a moment of silent hesitation, Pierce nods, though it appears to be more to himself than to the rest of them. “Gentlemen,” he says, “if you wouldn’t mind.” He stands and extends an arm, gesturing towards the door. “I’d like to speak to Jack alone for a moment.”

Steve’s initial irritation at the dismissal grows to full blown annoyance when Jack doesn’t even  _ look _ his way before waving him absently away with one careless gesture. He stands awkward, stiff, well aware that he hasn’t said so much as a word during the meeting. Fury and Pierce are treating him the same way the brass during the War used to  treat him before he’d carved out a name for himself. It grates, but there's almost something comforting in being pushed back into the role of blunt weapon and obedient grunt. He’s too tired to try and assert himself more.

Fury, however, doesn’t look at all bothered by the dismissal. He follows Steve to the door, closing it behind him and leaving Jack inside with Pierce. 

“Don’t look so sad, Rogers,” Fury says with a grim smile, “you’re due down in control for a debrief. Good luck explaining to Romanoff why you felt it necessary to turn off your radio.” 

Fury chuckles at Steve's groan and, as the two of them depart, Steve wonders just what it is about Jack, or Pierce, that makes him wish he was still in the room. 

He doesn’t see Jack for another forty-eight hours, although he hears through the grapevine that Jack has been assigned quarters in the same block as Steve. As officers, they get their own rooms; it wouldn’t be too difficult to find out which is Jack’s. Steve resists the urge and focuses instead on literally anything else. 

Romanoff is unimpressed with him, as expected. She’s as shrewd and lovely as Peggy was, and just as unwilling to let decisions she disagrees with go unchecked. Steve stands his ground the way he always has. Peggy respected that, and he thinks Romanoff does as well. Steve gets the impression that she could hand him his ass if the urge overtook her and once the debrief eases into a less formal discussion he lets her coax him into the sparing ring as compensation and quickly finds his assessment of her abilities to be an underestimation. 

Barton and Wilson watch the whole thing with barely contained glee and while they swears they’re not responsible, it’s not long before the gym is packed with agents all placing bets on the outcome. 

Steve’s win is never in danger, but she makes him work for it in a way no one has since the Red Skull. He tells her as much, then accepts an enthusiastic thump on the back from Clint and the invitation to get drinks in the mess. The offer of friendship and company is better than the alternative - the four walls of his room seem to shrink in on him oppressively when he's inside them. It also gives him the chance to map out the terrain. He’s technically got free rein to explore, but the ‘aw shucks, did I take a wrong turn?’ demeanor when he ventures into restricted areas only works so often, and until he has a better lay of the land he’s not about to start putting people’s backs up if he can help it. 

If Bucky were here, there wouldn’t be any secrets S.H.I.E.L.D. could hide from him. Aside from being small enough to sneak into, and out of, the most heavily guarded spaces, Bucky'd had an uncanny knack for being in the right place to hear all the best information. That was his superpower, he'd always said brightly. Ulike Steve’s, which is apparently getting shot at. 

Without Bucky, Steve has to do things the hard way, but it helps him get his head around the sheer number of new people he's coming into contact with. Most of his time is spent with Strike Team Delta - Romanoff, Barton, and a crazy combat medic named Wilson. That apparently puts him in the middle of a semi-friendly rivalry with Strike Team Alpha. On the surface, it’s all just jokes and banter, but sometimes Commander Rumlow’s eyes are just a little too cold and Romanoff’s return smile is just a little too sharp.

Steve and Barton are wedged into a corner of the mess while Romanoff wipes the floor with two Alpha grunts, a pool cue twirling between her fingers as she circles the table. Steve is happy enough to sit back and watch, but it leaves him without anyone to deflect to when Barton flashes him a loose grin. “So?”

Steve looks over the top of his glass. “So?”

“What’s the deal with the Major?”

“Jack?”

Barton’s eye roll is almost audible. “Yes,  _ Jack _ . What’s the deal with him and Pierce?”

“That’s not a conversation I was privy to,” Steve says dryly. 

“Yeah but come on. You must’ve noticed  _ something _ . You’re the super soldier.”

“Soldier, yes. Spy? Not so much.” 

“Seriously, Cap? No gossip at all?”

Pierce knew Jack as a child. He and Fury have some kind of ulterior motive for rescuing him from Gilboa. It doesn’t take a genius to put the parts together. The upper echelons of S.H.I.E.L.D are planning something and Jack is part of it. What that something is… Well, Steve is still playing catch up on seven decades of geopolitical history. He’s missing some pieces, but he won’t be for much longer. 

“Sorry,” he shrugs, “you know about as much as I do.”

Clint sighs into his beer. “Figures. I’d ask Nat, but she told me my brain would explode if I kept overthinking things.” Steve laughs and, across the room, Romanoff pots three balls in rapid succession. “Something’s going on though," Clint continues. "Pierce almost never spends time on base if he can help it.” 

Steve files that fact away with the hundred others he's gathered, then puts a consolatory hand on Barton’s shoulder and orders them both another beer. 

Steve finds Jack when he stops thinking about him. Armed with Barton’s suspicions and his own uneasiness with the world he’s found himself in, he eventually finds himself outside the armory. He hadn't been given a weapon on the mission to Gilboa, but he’s starting to suspect that the mission had been as much a test for him as a means to free Jack. He’s spotted some pretty impressive firepower on various Strike team members - saying nothing about the bow and arrow Barton inexplicably favors - and he’s curious what kind of advancements have been made since Howard Stark’s run with the SSR. 

Standing outside, Jack’s voice is clear even through the door. “He’s not going into the field looking like that.” 

“I’m sorry, Major Benjamin, but Director Fury-” SHIELD’s quartermaster’s voice drips with disdain.

“-Put  _ me _ in charge of Strike Team Delta and all its members,” Jack says, matching the quartermaster's tone. “And  _ I _ say Captain Rogers is not undertaking another mission until you provide him with the appropriate equipment, which includes BDUs that aren’t made out of bright blue spandex.”

“He’s supposed to be a symbol,” comes the argument that Steve has heard a hundred times. “He’s  _ supposed _ to stand out.”

“He’s going to be a bullet-riddled symbol if he goes back into the field dressed like that.”. 

Steve hangs back, curious and a little amused. There’s something about the forthright irritation that reminds him painfully of Peggy. She’d been loudly outspoken about ensuring Steve had the proper kit, had perfectly argued points about practicality and purpose that masked how much she knew Steve hated the garish symbol they wanted him to be. He’s almost certain Jack’s argument is coming from a practical place and not from any concern about Steve’s ego, but it’s almost reassuring, regardless.

He also hasn't missed the key point that Jack's been given command of Delta, which puts him in charge of Barton, Wilson and Romanoff. And Steve, apparently. He doesn’t object to the principle of working with either of them - they're competent and professional and only marginally crazier than the people Steve has worked with in the past. He can even envision a world where he and Jack work together. They’d been well in sync when they’d fought together during Jack's escape. With a bit of training, and time for Jack to build up his fitness, they could be a good team. 

Not as good of a team as Steve and Bucky were. Never as good as that. But acceptable. 

Thoughts of Bucky turn charitable thoughts towards Jack sour. Steve doesn’t  _ want _ to work with someone else. He doesn’t  _ want _ a substitute. He’ll take one, because what else can he do? But he doesn’t have to like it. 

He knocks loudly on the door before entering. 

The quartermaster is a tall, slender man, probably closer to Jack’s age than Steve’s. His glasses are slightly lopsided on his face and his hair is wildly disheveled. But despite his ruffled experience, he surveys Steve with a clinical eye. 

“Captain Rogers,” he says, straightening from where he'd been leaning against a rack of ration packs. 

Steve responds politely, his eyes fixed on Jack, who has traded his jumpsuit to cargo pants and a black turtleneck that fit him snugly. He looks…

“Captain,” Jack says. He’s standing at parade rest.

Steve, finally kicking his brain into gear, salutes. “Major.” 

There is a flicker of amusement on Jack’s face before he respectfully returns the salute. “We were just having a discussion that concerns you,” he says, looking over to the quartermaster.

Steve plays innocent. “Oh?”

“The  _ Major _ ,” the quartermaster says, “is under the impression that your uniform is not field appropriate.” Steve can’t tell from his tone whether he agrees or disagrees. 

Steve, desperate at the chance of a reprieve from spandex, schools his expression carefully. “I see,” he says. 

“It’s not  _ appropriate  _ for anything other than ridicule,” Jack scoffs. “And I'm tired of your insubordination. Strike Team Delta will be shipping out for maneuvers in seventy-two hours. I expect Captain Rogers to be as well-equipped as the rest of the team.”

There it is again. The cool, confident voice of a man who expects his orders to be carried out to the very letter. It’s partly down to rank. That much, Steve can respect. The rest of it – the princely entitlement – well, that’s a harder one to swallow.

If Steve really is going to be working with Jack - under Jack’s command, no less - he gives it a day, two at most, before that tone drives Steve crazy. 

Steve smoothes over ruffled feathers with an ease born of working with both Chester Phillips and Howard Stark. “I’d be grateful for anything you can do.”

“I’ll see what we can get ready for you, Captain.” The consideration and the lack of confrontation go a long way to ease the tension in tightly held shoulders. Like most men, and regardless of rank, the quartermaster prefers to be asked for something, not told to do it. 

Jack nods, pleased. “Gentlemen,” he says, crisply, then turning on his heel and marching from the armory. 

“You have my condolences,” the quartermaster says, once Jack's gone. 

“It’s not official yet,” Steve says. “Fury hasn't told us anything.”

“He will.” Unruly hair becomes even moreso as he shakes his head. “The  _ Major _ should be in a cell, not barking out orders.”

The memory of Jack sitting chained to his own bed frame sits vividly in Steve’s mind. Jack might not be making any friends, but Steve isn’t about to make his own at Jack's expense. 

He promises to check in with the armory the next day, then makes his way back to the mess. 

Five hours later, Fury calls Strike Team Delta, and Steve, into his office. Jack is already there waiting for them, ramrod straight and unflinching. 

“Close the door,” Fury says to Romanoff, “we’ve got a lot of shit to run through.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we forgo an explanation of what happened to the world for chess related foreplay and blowjobs...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to Brenda, who wrangles my words into something resembling coherency!

Steve gets his new suit. It’s delivered by a stuttering, blushing Private who tries and fails to make eye contact before snapping off a salute and scampering away the second Steve dismisses him. 

There’s definitely been some advancement in technology. The suit is heavier than the one Stark made for him, and sleeker. It fits him in a way that suggests someone has taken very thorough measurements. He forcefully turns curious thoughts away from that time between being found in the ice and waking. 

He hangs it from the rail at the foot of his bed, between SHIELD issue training clothes and the spandex monstrosity. In the morning, he reaches for it first. 

Fury’s plans for the newly expanded Strike Team Delta are still unclear. Even more unclear is Jack’s place in them. Steve doesn’t know if Jack is as in the dark as the rest of them or if he’s keeping secrets. Before, he might have cared enough to find out. Now, he’s just wondering how long it will take for Romanoff to do the job instead.

He showers. Shits. Shaves. Motions unconscious and unchanging, no matter what place or year he finds himself in. The water is marginally warmer than an Italian river, but not by much. He’s overheard talk in the mess and hot water is rationed, along with other luxuries. Super Soldier or not, he’s apparently yet to earn his share. Oddly, that’s a comfort. He'd never been comfortable with special treatment.

It’s just turning five am when he takes a seat in the mess hall and quietly works his way through a bowl of bland oatmeal and dried fruit. Wilson drops down onto the bench beside him and slides a clear plastic bottle under Steve’s arm.

“Trust me,” he says, with a wink.

Steve doesn’t think  anyone is going to try poison him here, and he isn’t far enough into his coffee to really care if they are. He looks at the bottle, then looks up at Sam in surprise. 

“Should I ask?” 

“Nope,” Sam says. “But you should use it all. You need the extra calories and –” He looks at Steve’s oatmeal and pulls a face "–  _ ugh _ ." 

Steve dumps half the honey onto his breakfast and slides the bottle back to Sam. “ _ Ugh _ ,” he says pointedly, looking at Sam’s smaller, but no less appetising, bowl. 

“If you don’t take that, I will,” Romanoff says. She and Barton take the opposite bench in near perfect unison. Barton has swapped his coffee mug and bowl around, and has a large dish of coffee and a smaller mug of oatmeal. He doesn’t look at Steve before lifting the bowl to his mouth and draining half of it in one go. 

“Stay away from the honey, Romanoff.” Wilson glares at her. “I had to do unspeakable things for this.” He doesn’t pour any on his own breakfast before tucking the bottle away. 

Romanoff makes a rude sound at the back of her throat. They are all, apparently, not morning people. Steve can respect that. The only morning person he knew was Bucky. Bucky could wake up at the crack of sparrow shit, bright eyed and ready to obnoxiously drive Steve around the bend before the sun was even in the sky. Even Peggy, who never had a hair out of place no matter when or where Steve saw her, was famously unapproachable before she’d had a cup of tea. 

The sharp stab of longing returns before he can turn his thoughts to less painful subjects. It sits like a burn below his ribcage, flaring with agony when touched. He misses them. Both of them. There’s a computer library he’s been told he can use, alongside the tablet he’s been issued. The library will allow him to access classified information. In there, he can find answers to things that aren’t public record. Like what happened to Peggy. The Commandos. All he’s found so far are the dates of their deaths: not too long after his supposed own. He needs to know how he failed them. 

The oatmeal sticks in his throat and he swallows painfully. He needs to know. 

 

* * *

  
Fury calls it training. Team building. Milk runs. It's a nice, clean way of describing the organized chaos that are the War Games. 

Steve, who has seen more of war than he likes to think about, can’t bring himself to object to the title. They  _ are _ games. Rubber bullets and smoke grenades. Flash-bangs, which do exactly as described, and screeching sirens overhead. Occasionally, part of the floor will explode, though not with enough force to remove a limb. There are traps in the walls, too. In urban combat, Steve’s seen more than one soldier take cover behind brick and mortar, only to be taken out by flying debris. 

The games are designed with a very specific type of combat in mind. It’s one Barton and Romanoff have less experience in. One that draws shadows to Wilson’s eyes. One that brings the life back to Steve’s. 

Steve is...well, he  _ knows _ this. He’s  _ good _ at this. Six hours into the scenario, Steve is as close to feeling steady as he has been since before the ice. It says a lot about the level of fucked in the head that he is, but by this point, he can’t really bring himself to care.

They have one goal: protect their camp. They aren’t on the offensive, not yet. They haven’t even moved beyond the hundred yard radius within the twenty square-mile training grounds. They are contained. They are in control. And Steve is feeling more and more confident with every hour that passes. 

After using one of their rival team’s scouts as a human bowling ball and scattering the latest group of contenders into a moaning tumble of bodies, Steve looks over his shoulder at Jack. 

They’re all in combat black and grey, their faces hidden behind goggles and masks. Steve’s the only one not wearing his: just cam cream to break up the lines of his face and hide any reflection once it gets dark and torches are employed. 

At a glance, Jack gives a short, sharp nod.  Steve knows they could’ve ended this hours ago if they’d taken a more offensive approach. They can win the game, gain the accolades and the respect of the other Strike teams, but it won’t help Steve get a read on the kind of tactical player Jack is. 

“This would be a lot easier if we let Cap loose on these assholes,” Romanoff says. She’s covering Barton’s six, picking off anyone who manages to sneak through their lines.

“Getting tired, Romanoff?” Jack asks with an edge of that infuriating smugness in his voice. Steve can practically feel the tension from Barton and Wilson as they all wait for a response. 

If Natasha tries to kill Jack, Steve will probably have to step in. Probably. He likes Jack enough to not want to see him scattered in bloody pieces across the training grounds. Even if he deserves it. 

Natasha's response is short and sharp, the meaning clear, even though it's in Russian. Jack, instead of falling back on his usual iciness, just lets out an un-princely snort. Steve thinks Jack’s almost as comfortable here as Steve himself is.

“I thought you wanted to show Rumlow his ass?” Jack replies. 

“I show that bastard his ass every time we spar,” she grumbles. 

“And yet, Alpha still holds the record in the field.” 

Wilson laughs. “That’s because they cheat.”

“And because they’re as subtle as grenade up your asshole,” Barton cheerfully adds. There’s a soft  _ phut phut  _ as he fires again, and a muffled ‘ _ fuck’ _ from one of his targets. “We,” he raises a hand from his rifle to circle in the air, “are the ones you send in when you want something done nice and quiet and smooth like.” Both Wilson and Romanoff make strained noises that Barton ignores. “Alpha just charges in and blows shit up.”

“You took out an entire wall in my home,” Jack says dryly.

“That was Cap,” Barton says. “And not part of the plan.”

“And if you’d've let me take you out the window…” Steve joins in, “there would’ve been zero property damage.”

“Since when did anyone have to  _ give _ you permission to do anything?” Romanoff asks, as she taps Barton on the shoulder to redirect his aim. 

It’s a fair question to ask, especially if she's read his service history, which she almost certainly has.  "Still polite to ask," Steve says, reaching over the barrier to haul one of the enemy agents up by his collar.  The kid – probably eighteen, but also possibly twelve – blanches before Steve tosses him back over.  

Jack watches, dispassionate, as the kid scrambles to his feet and runs for cover.  “It’s also redundant, which is why I kneed you in the balls.”

Wilson makes a low whistling sound that manages to be a whole lot more respectful than Barton’s bark of laughter. “You kicked Cap in the nuts? I’m impressed. This is me being impressed.”

“Thanks,” Jack says. “I’ve fulfilled my ambition in life.”

“Snarky little fuck, isn’t he?” Barton stage-whispers. . He sounds delighted. 

There’s a soft beep from Jack’s wristwatch. “That’s Alpha’s record broken,” he announces. “Cap? You ready?”

Steve, who can  _ see _ Rumlow approaching, no matter how well camouflaged he is, grins. 

“Get 'em all in less than five minutes,” Wilson says, “and drinks are on me.”

Steve only needs three. By the time he’s done, Alpha Team are moaning in a pile, Barton is dancing from one foot to the other, and a pleased, proud little smile is gracing Jack’s face.    
  


Wilson buys the first round as promised, the five of them cramming into one booth, dirty and stinking and comfortable in their own skin. It’s been a successful day and they’ve shown they can be compatible as a unit. It’s still early days – Steve and Jack are still new recruits to SHIELD, and no one really trusts them yet, the team included – but it’s a start. 

Jack stays for the next round, then orders a third before leaving for a debrief with Pierce. They offer to join, but Jack waves them off with a grimace. “Trust me,” he says, “you’ll have more fun here.”

"Sure we will," Natasha says, with a grin.  "But that's not the point."

Barton shrugs as he raises his glass. “Rather him than me.” 

Jack’s long gone by the time Alpha pours in, bruised and irritated. Rumlow makes a show of sportsmanship, raising a bottle in a silent salute from across the room, but Steve is under no illusion they've made themselves any friends. 

Not that he cares either way.  He's not here to make friends.  He has a different agenda.

Aside from the banter within the ranks, and a few talks with Fury, there’s been no mention of his super soldier status. The mission to rescue Jack had been his only one, despite talks of ‘getting straight back into the game’. Which tells him they’re watching and waiting for something. Steve just doesn’t know what. 

Fury and Pierce haven’t been obvious about keeping him in the dark, but he hasn't had a proper debrief yet, either. 

Tonight, he’s going to test how far that supposed transparency really goes. He’s spent the time since thawing to get his head around modern tech, playing it quiet, playing it dumb. Hopefully, he can access Fury’s personal computer without getting caught, but, succeed or fail, he’s going to learn something. If they’ve got nothing to hide, then they won’t try to arrest or kill him if he's discovered. If they do – if they are hiding something…well, Steve’s broken out of worse places than this before. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll stop for Jack on his way out.

He doesn’t even know why he’s asking that question. 

He buys a round of drinks, makes a joke about people partying harder in the future, and excuses himself for his bunk.

* * *

 

The one flaw in his plan makes itself known an hour before lights out, when there’s a rap on Steve’s door. 

He calls for his visitor to enter, rising from the edge of the bed as he does.

“Please.” Jack lets himself in and closes the door quietly behind him. “Don’t get up on my behalf.”

Like Steve, he looks freshly showered, and is dressed in basic SHIELD issue pants and a t-shirt. There’s a chessboard tucked under his arm. 

“You play?” Steve asks, his head lifting in excitement at the prospect of a game. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he plays chess. 

Maybe his B&E plans can wait another night...

The room isn't big enough for a table, so, Jack takes a seat on the edge of the mattress and sets the board down on the sheets. “My father always said chess is the ultimate struggle of wills. Everything important in war is important in chess: to strike, to move, to protect. The strength of our approach is our level of abstraction.”

Steve’s fingers move of their own accord, helping set each piece in place. “Your father was a good soldier?”

Jack’s smile is bitter around the edges. Brittle. “My father was a good  _ general _ .” Good at moving pieces. “I thought that if I could understand what motivated his game, I could understand what motivated his life.” There’s more there, a failure and a resentment that Jack isn’t yet ready to share.

Steve wonders which piece Jack is on King Silas’s board. 

Sensing a way to connect, Steve says, “My dad was a soldier, too. Not a general. Not anyone with any real power. He fought for what he believed in. Died for it. When I was a kid, I wanted nothing more than to be like him. Tried to enlist as soon as I was old enough.”

Jack’s eyes track across the breadth of his shoulders and the lines of his chest. Steve knows what he sees and can take a guess as to what he's trying to imagine. 

“This was before you took Erskine’s serum?” 

_ Before _ . Like so many things. “Yeah.”

Jack takes a moment before replying. “You wanted him to be proud of you. To live up to him.”

“Didn’t you?”

The bark of laughter isn’t unexpected. “I think it’s a lot better for the world to imitate your father than mine.” 

There isn’t much Steve can say in response. He’d like to believe that all fathers love their sons, even if they clash on everything important to them. Even on opposite sides of a war. But it's hard to see that love in a man who imprisons his child. 

“Do you think he’d be proud of you?” Jack asks. “What you’ve done. What you’ve sacrificed.”

God, now there’s a question. Would his father be proud off the intention? Maybe. Steve hopes so, at least. But the reality? He’s done a lot of things in the name of freedom, many of them heavy burdens to live with. Steve can’t imagine anyone being proud of them. 

“I think,” he says, his smile soft but strained, “that I will never be able to get drunk enough to answer that one.”

Surprisingly, Jack doesn’t push. “Black or white?” he asks, instead. “Or is Captain America not that morally ambiguous?”

“You go first,” Steve says, grinning. 

“You’re giving up an advantage.” 

“Maybe I don’t need one?” It’s easy, and almost fun, teasing Jack when he’s willing to let someone past all that ice. He’s even smiling; and in that smile, he can understand why Romanoff had called him the Playboy Prince. 

But Steve also knows that chess is no more just about moving pieces on a board than poker is about shuffling cards. Jack’s unnerving, intense gaze and winter-white smile is just as much a part of his play as the moves he makes.

They play in a companionable silence, broken only by the odd teasing comment on the other’s tactics. “You sure you want to do that?” Steve asks, as Jack moves his rook to capture Steve's pawn. “You’re leaving yourself wide open to my Knight.”

“Maybe that’s the plan?” 

"If it is, then it’s a terrible plan," Steve says, as he forces Jack into check. He gets the feeling that Jack is letting him win, or at least not putting much effort into trying to make it hard. Steve’s disappointed for a moment, until he catches Jack’s eye and realizes that losing this game was always his intention. 

“Playing the long con, huh?”

“Making things more interesting. Stop harassing my Queen.”

Steve takes it two moves later and forced him back into check. “I’ve got you in six.”

“You asking me to surrender?” Jack's gaze lingers over the board before darting up to meet Steve’s smile with his own. 

“Suggesting it for the sake of your ego,” Steve laughs. “You can’t win the match, and your king’s gonna be mine unless…” he trails off as he reexamines the board. “Oh, you son of a  _ bitch _ .”

“You mean, unless I move this pawn  _ right here _ ?” 

Steve can still take Jack’s king in six, but Jack can now do the same. They're in a true stalemate.

“Knew I’d never  _ beat _ Captain America,” Jack says, with a smirk, “but I've got a few tricks up my sleeve."  He stands, gesturing towards the door. "Is this my cue to make a strategic retreat?”

“Don’t you dare,” Steve growls, standing himself and hooking a hand over Jack’s shoulder before he can make a run for it. “I want a rematch.” He wants a hundred rematches. 

Jack’s shoulder is warm beneath his palm. New, stiff cotton does nothing to mask the firmness beneath the skin or the sharp curve where bones meet. Still too thin, and brittle, but unbroken. No matter what Steve feels, no matter  _ how _ Steve feels, he can’t deny that he respects that rigidity of will. 

It’s maybe a step too far, though. A boundary crossed without permission. Jack’s eyes linger on Steve’s hand, almost uncomprehending. Steve goes to apologize, fingers already uncurling, when the tension in Jack’s body coils and snaps. 

And Steve, who has been kissed by exactly three people, Jack included, is better at anticipating an assassination attempt than a seduction. In this case, there might not be much difference. Jack collides with him hard enough to make his teeth rattle. 

It’s not… he should stop this, but the contact is everything that’s been missing in this cold, alien future. Jack’s need, his  _ desperation _ , sparks under Steve's skin and finds a mirror in the hollowness that Steve has been trying to hard to ignore. They are matched, equally broken by the things they've seen and done and lived through. 

Steve doesn’t know if this is something that’s meant to be. If this is fate pushing them together, forcing them to find comfort in the one steady part of a crazy world. Knowing his luck, probably not. 

It’s hard not to notice how well Jack fits in his arms, though. How he fits, solid and lean, in all the open, empty spaces, and when Steve brings a careful, tentative hand up to Jack's cheek, there is nothing frail or delicate about him. 

Breakable, maybe, in the way that the world is when faced with Steve’s strength, but sturdy. There’s a well of strength in Jack that goes beyond the physical. Steve wants to drown in it. 

Then Jack's fingers tighten in Steve’s hair, impatiently demanding more. 

He gets a hand behind Jack’s head before it impacts with the wall and the stab of pain that runs down his arm is fleeting, negligible. He tries to imagine a time he’s met passion with so much force.

Never. With Peggy, there’d been no chance, and before that, nothing had even come close to the fire currently burning under his skin. He’s never wanted or  _ needed _ , anyone the way he wants Jack right now. 

Steve pushes, Jack pulls, and together they fall beyond reason.

This is a  _ terrible _ idea.  But Steve can't stop.

Jack drags Steve’s shirt over his head and bites down hard on the jut of Steve’s collarbone. It’s a new hurt, strange and sharp, doesn’t break the skin, but Steve imagines he can see blood in Jack’s wide, wicked smile. 

The playboy prince…He’s certainly living up to the more explicit parts of his reputation. 

Steve puts his hands Jack’s shirt and means to pull it over his head. Instead, the material tears apart in his hands. 

“Fuck,” Jack swears. 

An apology forms on Steve’s tongue and dies at the look in Jack’s eyes. That pale, icy blue is only a sliver of colour now, his eyes wide and hungry, his expression almost drunk. Steve presses his palm to the centre of Jack’s chest, spreads his fingers wide and watches Jacks shiver. 

“You’re real pretty, you know that?” He means it. Jack is exquisite. Steve takes a moment to catch his breath and  _ look _ at him the way a lover should.  With reverence.

“When you say it like that, it sounds like a compliment,” Jack replies. 

Steve could spend hours trying to decipher all the meanings hidden in the cadence of his voice. He kisses Jack instead, slower this time, but no less forceful. He pushes Jack against the wall, pins him there with the wide expanse of his chest, and lets the press of skin contact soothe the wild tangle in his bones. He doesn't let up until Jack is breathless, pliant in Steve's arms his heartbeat racing against Steve’s ribs. 

“It  _ is _ a compliment,” he says, brushing dark strands of hair away from Jack's face. 

Jack pushes at his chest and Steve takes a reluctant, but respectful, step back, and resigns himself to spending the rest of the night with his hand for company. But Jack only uses the extra space to drop to his knees. 

His hands tug at the leather of Steve’s belt, frantic again. 

“Oh.” Steve to help, his fingers colliding with Jack’s until they're impatiently slapped away and his pants are pulled down to his knees. 

He’s harder than he can ever remember being, and the regulation white briefs are less supportive than they are restrictive. Jack presses his palm against the straining bulge, his eyes wide. 

“Fuck me,” he breathes, tugging down the fabric.  He carefully takes Steve’s dick in his hand. “That spandex was better camouflage than I gave it credit for.”

Steve manages to laugh in both amusement and mortification at once. He makes a move to pull away, but Jack literally has him held in the palm of his hand. “If you don’t put your dick in my mouth in the next five seconds," Jack orders, "I’m assigning you latrine duty for the rest of the month.”

“That’s a gross misuse of power,” Steve says, then his brain catches up to what Jack’s said, and short fuses. Fuck... _ fuck. _

“Yeah?" Jack lifts an imperious eyebrow. "What you gonna do about it, Cap?” 

Steve accepts the challenge without further thought, taking his dick in hand and sliding the other into Jack’s hair. He expects Jack to lick him, to suck on the head like the pretty USO girl did, her small hands and small mouth worshipful and thorough. She’d brought Steve to his knees and he half expects Jack to do the same. 

Jack doesn’t. Jack opens his mouth, lets Steve slide the head of his dick across his tongue, and swallows. 

“Oh fuck! Fuck, Jack…” He keeps one hand tight in Jack’s hair, and braces the other against the wall. The look Jacks gives him is challenging, almost competitive, matching the frantic flutter of Jack’s throat as he tries to take every inch of Steve down his throat. He manages a third before his eyes start to water and the sounds he makes start to border more on pain than pleasure. Steve once again starts to pull back, and winces as Jack’s fingers dig sharply into his thighs. 

He ignores the pain and pulls out, slipping from Jack’s mouth, with a wet gasp.   “Jesus, Jack…you okay?”

“I will be,” Jack says, his lips red and swollen and tempting, “when you stop fucking around and  _ fuck _ me.”

_ Oh.  _ He untangles his hand from Jack’s hair and takes a step closer. The wall is right behind Jack’s head. Steve doesn’t need to hold him to keep him in place. "Is that what you... _ want _ ?"

Jack nods and opens his mouth, takes Steve back down his throat, takes more and more until some primal survival instinct kicks in and he tries to pull back -

\- and can’t. There’s nowhere to go. Steve watches him, tracks every flicker, every movement, and leans a fraction of an inch forward. That’s it, that’s Jack’s limit. Steve pulls back, lets him suck in a desperate breath, and pushes back in. He fucks Jack’s mouth the way Jack wants, the way he’d never have dared with anyone else, too afraid of his own strength, too aware of his size. Jack sets the limit with the dig of his nails into Steve’s thighs, his mouth stretched open and stuffed full, obscene and filthy and perfectly, painfully beautiful.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly Steve comes undone. Jack is no less ruthless on his knees than he is playing chess. He finds Steve’s weakness - everything, apparently, when it comes to getting his dick sucked by a fucking  _ pro _ \- and exploits it. Jack might be the one on his knees with his mouth full of dick, but Steve is the one completely at his mercy. 

It’s not long before he’s careening over the edge of the cliff and trying to cling to his manners enough to give Jack  _ some _ kind of warning. When he tries, Jack digs his fingers into Steve’s thighs viciously, demanding more.

Steve could break his grip.

He breaks the wall instead. 

A small part of him is abstractly horrified as he puts his fist into brick, but it's lost as his vision blurs and then blacks over when he comes. 

There’s nothing elegant about the way his spunk leaks from the corners of Jack’s mouth. It’s debauched and filthy and beyond anything Steve has ever done before. He’s shaking, his brain torn between post-orgasmic stupidity and the clarity of a satisfying climax. 

Jack gets off his knees while Steve’s are still trembling and presses his bruised mouth to Steve’s with no less force than the last time. Steve won’t lie and say he’s never curiously tasted his own come, but it’s never been pressed to his lips by a mouth he’s just fucked raw and a tongue that should be classed as a weapon of interrogation. 

The blaze of fire slowly settles to a steady burn as his heartbeat eases. Now that the initial thirst has been quenched, Steve wants more. He wants to savor. He takes Jack’s face in his hands. Deepens their kiss. Slows it. 

Jack even lets him for a minute or two.

When he pulls away, Steve is already anticipating how he's going to return the favor. He's never sucked anyone's dick, but he imagines taking Jack apart the same way Jack did him - more clumsily, maybe, but enthusiasm has to count for something, right? - then maybe laying him down on the narrow bunk and exploring all those sharp, harsh lines with his mouth. 

Steve reaches, and Jack ducks under his arm. 

He doesn’t run to the door. He doesn’t have to in a room this size. 

“Don’t you want…?” Steve doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. He’s starting to feel confused. And stupid for a reason that has nothing to do with his orgasm-brain. 

Jack’s expression isn’t cold, but it's not exactly glowing with his former warmth either. “That was for you,” he says, then opens the door, and hesitates. “Rematch tomorrow?”

No, Steve wants to say. Tomorrow he needs to do what he failed to do tonight and get on Fury's computer. 

“Tomorrow,” he agrees. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
